Tara

  She saw a shadow in the yard. Just a momentary darkening on the barn door, but she knew it was someone creeping along by the back of the house. Standing very still, she listened. He was fumbling with the doorknob. She was scared now, suddenly all too aware of being alone.

  'I must phone the police,' she whispered. 'Creep down so he doesn't see me and phone before he gets in.'

  How many times had Greg told them they shouldn't leave the door unlocked? She'd tried to explain that that was the way she'd always known, because she'd never considered she had anything worth stealing.

  There was no time. Any minute he would be in; she must rush to the phone. But as she reached the top of the stairs she heard the back door creak open, then close a second later.

  Indignation was greater than fear. How dare someone creep into her house at Christmas, uninvited? She continued down the stairs, peering over the banisters and considering her next move. A faint gleam of light suggested a torch. She couldn't hear the sounds of drawers or cupboards opening. He must be just looking around. All she could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock.

  Slowly she crept down the stairs, avoiding the one that creaked, proud of herself for not making a sound. The sitting-room door was open slightly, the smell of pine strong and warm. As she got to the bottom stair she darted in there to pick up the heavy candlestick. Her heart was thumping so loud it was surprising he didn't come to find the source. She wished she'd stopped to put her dressing gown on over her nightdress.

  Taking a deep breath Mabel moved out of the sitting room back into the hall and towards the kitchen. She had it all quite clear in her head. Switch on the light and order him out. If he didn't go she'd hit him, then call the police. Her hand stole round to the light switch, she counted silently to three, then flashed it on.

  'What the hell are you doing in my house?' she screamed. 'Get out!'

  But even as her brave words came out, fear struck her. Not so much because of his build, though he towered above her and seemed to fill the kitchen, but because he wore a black balaclava which covered his entire face except for his eyes, nose and top lip. The eyes were dark brown and they looked startled. He moved towards her threateningly.

  She brandished the candlestick. 'Get out or I'll call the police,' she shouted, moving sideways towards the phone on the dresser.

  He moved swiftly, his hand reaching the phone at the same moment hers did.

  Mabel lashed out with the candlestick, but it merely glanced off his upper arm. He knocked it out of her hand on to the floor and pushed her back against the wall.

  She knew then that he was more than a burglar. He wore camouflage trousers, a khaki pullover and heavy working men's boots.

  'Who are you?' She looked hard into his brown eyes, trying to imagine the rest of his face. 'What do you want from me?'

  His upper lip moved slightly, as if he saw something funny in her question. She could hear her heart thumping, blood almost bubbling in her veins.

  'Speak, for God's sake!' she screamed at him.

  His eyes reminded her of the heifers when she tried to get them into a truck to go to the abattoir.

  'Look, you're scared. So am I, neither of us expected to run into one another,' she said quickly. 'Go now and I won't call the police. I'll even give you some money if that's what you want. Don't get yourself in deeper trouble by hurting me.'

  She wanted him to speak so badly – anything to break that terrible silence, the feel of that hand pushing her shoulder back to the wall and and his dark eyes burning into her face. But still he said nothing.

  'Are you mute?' she snapped.

  He pulled a length of rope out of his pocket and at the same time grabbed her, pulling her towards a chair.

  'There's no need to tie me,' she protested. 'Don't be ridiculous.' But she submitted, letting him tie the rope round her wrists behind the chair. It meant he was going to search the house; the worst that could happen was she might be in the chair till Amy got home.

  Screaming wasn't an option. For one thing it was unlikely anyone would hear and, anyway, it would only make him angry. Better to just sit there quietly.

  He had gone straight upstairs. She listened as he went into each of the bedrooms then came running back down the stairs, only pausing for a second to look in the sitting room.

  'I could have saved you the trouble,' she said drily as he came back into the kitchen empty-handed. 'There's nothing worth stealing here. I never keep more than a couple of pounds and that's up there above the Aga, if you're desperate.'

  It was something in the way his head jerked round at her words. 'I've got it,' she crowed triumphantly. 'I know who you are!' But as her words came out and he moved towards her she realised she'd made a fatal mistake.

  His eyes turned black, she could see beads of sweat forming on his nose, and she knew he would have to kill her. She was blabbering now, saying whatever came into her head.

  'Amy will be back soon with the doctor. You'd better get going because they'll call the police. Please don't hurt me!' She despised herself for speaking like that but she couldn't stop.

  His hands were reaching out for her. He wore thin surgical gloves and they reminded her oddly of the waxworks in Madame Tussaud's. She bucked in the chair, hearing it scrape on the quarry tiles Amy had polished that afternoon, but those rubber-clad fingers caught her neck, thumbs pressing in on her windpipe.

  So often in the days before Amy turned up with the children she'd wanted to die, but not now, not before she'd put everything right. The smell of turkey in the oven, the aromas of cooked ham, mince pies and pine needles, they all seemed overpoweringly pungent and so terribly dear to her. She could feel her eyes bulging as he pressed harder and harder and already the room was slowly spinning as she lost consciousness.

  'I didn't come here to kill you,' she heard him say, as if from a very long way off. 'But I've got to now you know who I am.'

  'It's still dark,' Greg complained as Amy got out of bed.

  'It's after six. Stan will be doing the milking and he might wake Mother. Besides, I'll have to creep upstairs and change.' She wasn't going to tell him she had woken with that awful foreboding feeling, he'd think she'd gone cold on the wedding plans.

  'I'll walk round with you.' Greg swung his legs out of bed as Amy disappeared into the bathroom.

  'You stay here,' she called back. 'There's no point in you coming too!'

  'I'm not having you going home in the dark,' he said, rummaging around for his underpants on the floor. 'Besides, Winston would love a walk.'

  'What are we going to say to Mother about where we'll live?' Amy shouted out. 'We haven't talked about that.'

  'Where do you want to live?'

  'Here. But I doubt she'll like that.'

  'Let's just tell her we're getting married,' Greg said evenly. 'Maybe she won't be as difficult as we imagine.'

  'Pigs might fly,' Amy said darkly, coming back into the bedroom zipping up her skirt.

  Daylight was just trying to break through as they walked down the High Street. Winston ran back and forth, sniffing everything with enthusiasm, his breath like smoke in the cold air.

  As they approached the farm Amy began to walk on tip-toe so her mother wouldn't hear her high heels on the path. As she turned into the lane that led round to the farmyard, she moved to kiss Greg.

  'I'll come right round, just in case she's locked you out.' He kissed her nose and grinned like a cherubic schoolboy. 'If that's the case I'll take you back home!'

  As they walked across the yard Amy paused, looking up at the house.

  'What's wrong?' Greg touched her arm. A shadow seemed to pass over her upturned face, something sinister that made him feel cold.

  'I don't know, just a funny feeling.' She frowned, then shook her head. 'Weird! Probably what Mother calls James Brady's ghost!'

  They were at the back door. Greg moved forward and turned the knob. 'Not locked.' He smiled and pushed the door open. The first thing he saw was Mabel's
silver candlestick lying on the floor.

  'Oh, shit,' he exclaimed. 'I think you've been burgled!'

  Amy switched on the light and moved with him into the kitchen, Winston close behind. The kitchen drawers had been turned out on to the floor. The larder door stood open. Through the door to the hall they could see more papers strewn.

  'Mother!' Amy ran to the door, Greg close behind.

  'Let me look!' he shouted, but it was too late. Amy had already reached the top of the stairs and Winston bounded after them, barking, thinking this was some kind of game.

  Amy paused momentarily as she reached the landing. She could feel Greg behind her, hear Winston panting, and she was afraid of what she might see. Taking a deep breath she took another step, closed her hand round the brass knob and opened the door.

  'Mother!' Relief washed over her as she saw Mabel tucked up fast asleep in the darkened room.

  'She's OK, she can't have heard anything.' Amy turned to Greg and smiled in relief. 'Look, she's still asleep!'

  But Greg brushed past her, pulled back the curtains and bent over Mabel. All colour left his face. There was no need to ask him what it was, his face said it all. But as Amy moved towards the bed Greg turned and tried to prevent her.

  'No, don't look.' His voice was strangely shrill.

  But she was already looking. Her mother's eyes seemed to bulge out of her face like two huge amber pebbles, and her mouth was open as if in a silent scream.

  Amy felt Greg's arms go round her, then there was nothing more, just black mist swirling round her and a strange buzzing noise in her ears.

  'So where was Mrs Manning?'

  Amy heard the question as if the voice spoke down a cardboard tube.

  'She was with me, at my house. I walked back here with her.'

  Amy stirred on the sofa, felt her mother's crocheted shawl tickling her face and remembered.

  'Stay calm,' she said to herself. 'Breathe deeply, think it through.'

  The Christmas tree was still lit, the curtains drawn behind it, presents piled up beneath. The fire had long since gone out, leaving a greying pile of warm embers.

  'Greg!' she called out hesitantly. 'Greg!'

  'It's OK, darling, the police are here now.' Greg was at her side in a second, kneeling next to her, his plump face pale and anxious. 'You just stay there, I'll talk to them.'

  'No, Greg.' She struggled to sit up. 'I'll speak to them myself. I have to!'

  'I'm so sorry, Mrs Manning.' The uniformed policeman came into the sitting room. His bright blue eyes were soft with sympathy and she thought she recognised him.

  'Have we met before?' Amy frowned, trying hard to think why his face seemed familiar.

  'I'm Sergeant Rudges.' His weatherbeaten face seemed to turn a little red. 'I was one of the officers who came –' He stopped sharply, clearly embarrassed.

  She nodded, remembering now. The young constable who turned white and shook like a leaf as they lifted Paul's little body from the spike. He was a man now, broader, stronger featured, but he still recalled the horror of that day as she did. Somehow it helped to soothe the rising panic inside her.

  'You'll remember how strong my mother was?' she said softly.

  He nodded.

  'Why didn't she put up a fight, then?'

  Sergeant Rudges looked at the woman sitting in front of him. Could anyone stand another such terrible blow?

  He wanted to get out. Go home to his wife and children, see them open their presents, hear their laughter. He didn't want that picture staying in his mind after he closed his eyes. Eyeballs like brown boiled sweets bulging from a grey face, a slack old mouth gaping open, and those vivid red thumbprints on her windpipe.

  It took years to put aside the memory of the poor kid impaled on that machine. Now there would be yet another horror story to add to the fund of legends about this farm. The whole place chilled him to the bone.

  'It looks like he strangled her before he began the robbery.' He had already considered how odd it was that she'd been killed while still in bed. But the forensic boys would soon sort that out. 'Have you any idea what's been taken?'

  Amy was glad of the diversion. She got up, clinging to Greg's arm for a moment.

  'You don't have to do anything now,' he said softly. 'I'll make us some tea.'

  'It's better for me to do something.' She opened the desk first and discovered that the money her mother kept hidden at least was there. "The sooner they know what's gone, the clearer the picture will be.'

  Once in the kitchen she looked around. As well as the strewn drawer contents, other things had been moved.

  'Did you touch anything here?' she asked Sergeant Rudges.

  'No.' He shook his head. 'We don't touch anything till forensic gets here.'

  "The chairs have all been moved.' She looked round slowly and pointed to the abandoned cigar box on the floor. 'The egg and cheese money's gone. There was around ten pounds in there. Can I touch that?' She gestured to an imitation cottage above the Aga. 'That's where we kept the housekeeping money.'

  It was gone, as was the five-pound note tucked behind the clock that was Amy's payment for making a dress for a neighbour.

  'I'll have to check upstairs for jewellery,' she said.

  'Don't worry.' Sergeant Rudges put one hand on her shoulder. 'I can hear a car, that'll be the Bristol police. I expect they'll want to take over now.'

  It was such a long, long day. So many men coming in and out, so many questions. The experts decided her mother had been strangled in the kitchen, tied to a chair. The assailant must have carried her upstairs, tucked her into bed, then carried on ransacking the house. Why would anyone go to the trouble of putting her into bed? Understandable if he didn't want his crime discovered immediately, but why, then, did he tip out drawers on to the floor?

  The police pored over everything, asking questions about who came to the farm regularly and what strangers had been there in the past few months. They dusted for fingerprints, picked up samples of fibres and even mud from the floor, took photographs before they removed Mabel's body. Through it all Amy wanted to scream that it was her fault.

  If she hadn't gone home with Greg, the door would have been securely locked. If only she could take back those angry words she'd flung at Mother before Greg called, and replace them with words of love. She should have told her how much she admired her strength, that caustic wit and indomitable spirit. Thanked her for opening up her heart to her grandchildren, for being a rock when Amy most needed her, and giving Amy a place in society, pride and dignity again.

  But time had run out. Now she would never discover the secrets her mother had locked away in her heart. She couldn't tell her that the past was wiped out. everything forgiven and forgotten.

  Of all the hard tasks life had thrown at her, picking up the telephone and telling Tara was the hardest.

  'Mum, I can't take it in,' was all Tara could say. 'Can you get Greg to explain it all to Harry? Then I'll phone you back.'

  'My darling.' Greg held her in his arms on the settee in the sitting room, stroking her back and hair, crooning words of love to her. 'I wish I could find the right words to say to you.'

  'I should have come home,' she sobbed. 'Why did you make me stay with you?'

  'It was fate, Amy,' Greg whispered. 'The man might have killed you, too, and think what that would have done to Tara and me.'

  'But we were making jokes about her.' Amy lifted swollen eyes to Greg. 'Now I'm always going to think of that.'

  'My mother and I made jokes about my dad just before he died,' Greg said gently. 'He was a mean old devil and I said we'd shock him at his funeral by laying on a lavish party. It didn't mean we didn't love him, just that we weren't blind to his faults.'

  Nothing seemed quite real. Not Greg cutting off slices of turkey and ham and wrapping them in foil to take home to his house. Not the calm way he went round the farm checking on the animals, or him going upstairs and packing a few clothes for her in a bag.

&
nbsp; 'You're coming home with me,' he said gently, pulling her to her feet and slipping her coat on. 'Tara and Harry can stay there, too. I've phoned Stan to tell him what's happened. Now we just lock the doors and walk away.'

  If only it was as simple as that. Lock the door and walk away. Forget the place where Paul had died. Forget the police coming to say that her husband had murdered a priest then died himself in an accident. Forget the day she discovered Tara had run away. And now this, an old woman strangled in her own kitchen for less than twenty pounds.

  Chapter 29

  'Oh, Mum, it's so awful.' Tara ran into Amy's arms the second Greg opened the door. 'Who could do such a thing?'

  'I don't know, darling.' Amy rocked her, tears streaming down her face. 'I keep asking myself that.'

  'What can I say, Amy?' Harry stepped forward, putting his hand on Amy's shoulder. His blue eyes were dark with sorrow, his lips tight. 'I'm so sorry sounds a bit weak, but I'm sure you know how gutted I am. I've got a letter from Dad and Queenie for you. I'll give it to you later.'

  He could hardly bear to look at Amy's eyes welling up with tears. He felt as helpless as he had at Paul's death, but this time there was rage, too.

  Greg looked at Amy and Tara rocking together in each other's arms, and his eyes misted over. 'Come into my study, Harry?' He inclined his head towards a door in the hall. 'Let them talk it out between themselves. I'm sure you could use a drink.'

  Harry hesitated. Amy lifted her head from Tara's and nodded at him, and reluctantly he followed Greg.

  Harry had been to Greg's house several times, but he'd never been in here before. It was smaller than the other rooms, tucked between the surgery and hall, with a long, slender window overlooking the gravel drive. It was a masculine retreat, smelling of cigars and old books. A desk with a typewriter was slotted in under the window, sagging leather armchairs flanked an old gas fire.

  'This was my surgery when I first joined my father.' Greg smiled weakly, bending to light the fire. 'He was a crusty old devil, I was glad to get in here and escape from him.'